


Nightmares

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: “Promise me you’ll never leave me,” he whispers, almost begs.Post Substitute, pre Endgame.





	Nightmares

**Nightmares**

* * *

He’s drowning, she’s drowning, and he can’t get to her. He’s got his mouth open, trying to scream out to her, the desperation clawing at him, through him, but instead the thick black mass of swirling, raging water floods in.

Icy and far more viscous than water should ever be, it pours into his mouth, forces its way down his throat. He can feel it spreading through the maze of his lungs, filling the bronchi, diffusing out like an insidious, unstoppable enemy.

Panic sets in and Boyd lashes out, fights it. Pushes and pushes against the blackness, tries to swim, to pull his way forwards, to get to her. To catch hold of her, save her.

His vision is clouding, though, and she’s disappearing. He screams in rage, still frantic, still fighting. The surface is long gone now, the light seeping out of the scene rapidly, leaving only ghostly shadows and an outline that might be her, might be just a figment of his imagination.

_No! She can’t be gone, she can’t._

He’s choking, screaming, fighting, desperately trying to get to her, to where he thinks she is. To save her.

But he’s still sinking, it’s still getting darker, and –

* * *

“Peter,” she all but shouts, hands on his shoulders, trying to shake him out of it. He thrashes against her, his fist catching her violently in the shoulder but she hangs on, and finally, _finally_ , it works.

His eyes open, unseeing, still wild with panic.

“It’s okay,” Grace coos soothingly, hands now caressing his face.

He stares at her, doesn’t recognise her, and she feels that as a fleeting bite of pain, too, but thrusts it aside as he starts to emerge from the terror.

“It’s not real,” she murmurs, stroking his hair slowly, rhythmically. “It was just a dream. Just a nightmare.”

She sees it as he recognises her, as the fear releases its hold.

It’s so cruel, she thinks. He’s such a strong man, he fights off so much, and yet his nightmares have the power to paralyse him with terror. 

“It’s okay,” she repeats, an endless round of reassurance. “You’re okay, I’m here.”

* * *

She’s warm, and there’s light.

Grace.

She’s warm and real, and a solid weight against him, and as his heart pounds and his chest aches he instinctively pulls her into him, wraps her up and engulfs her in his arms, against his body, in real need of the reassurance, the grounding.

Her head is resting on his chest, her hair brushing his face, tickling, but he doesn’t care. She smells good and familiar, and she has her arms around him, holding him.

She’s there and she loves him and she is real.

And God, it means everything.

* * *

The terror in him is fading quickly, as it always does.

He doesn’t let go though, and Grace likes that. The raw fragility in him in moments like this is humbling. Reminds her of why she never questions her decision when times are tougher, harder.

He is… remarkable, in so many ways. She’s wise enough and intelligent enough to know that many of her thoughts come from being deeply in love with him, but she also knows that, for all the things they argue and differ over, he really is a good and decent man.

His skin is losing its clamminess now, his breathing evening out, but even so she keeps up the slow, easy strokes of her palm over his broad back, leaves her legs entangled with his. It’s comfortable, and comforting, because seeing him caught in such horrors and being powerless to stop them always claws at her. Fills her with guilt.

* * *

How are dreams so terrifying? So disabling.

Why does his unconscious mind have so much power over him? Such an ability to betray him? To make him so… vulnerable?

It’s ridiculous. Outrageous.

With anyone else it would be embarrassing.

It’s not who he is at all.

But if there has to be someone who knows, who cares in these moments…

Who makes the burden of all the things he’s seen and done just a little bit easier to bear, to carry with him…

He would always pick her. Always.

* * *

In… out… in… out… in… out…

It’s a steady metronome under her ear, and Grace relaxes to the real ease of his breathing now, the steadiness of his heart. Feels her grip slacken slightly, even as she stays where she is, tucked closely and comfortably against him.

Boyd is nuzzling her hair, his lips an occasional indolent, indistinct caress against her scalp, and now she’s starting to drift again, falling deeper and deeper into that hazy, lethargic place of lazy awareness and near slumber.

She adores him, with all her heart, and in moments like this…

If only she could make time stand still.

* * *

There’s a tiny catch in her breathing, as though she is about to fall victim to a cold, though there are no other signs, and she seems the picture of health of late. He listens, and breathes in the scent of her, hears the faint, deep sound of the grandfather clock ticking downstairs in the living room.

Wind rustles the tree outside, the branches scratching against the wall of the house. The floorboards out on the landing creak softly as the house settles; the pipes of the hot water system grumbling quietly in response.

All normal, everyday things.

A peaceful, quiet night.

Grace sighs against him, and he runs a slow, meandering hand up the length of her arm, down her back. She’s warm and soft, and it’s soothing and perfect.

Not what he ever expected, but it is.

* * *

“Promise me you’ll never leave me,” he whispers, almost begs. There’s a tiny, last lingering trace of fear in his voice, and it punches through her serene, dreamy state. Rips open a gaping hole in her heart.

The touch of vulnerability in his tone…

She’d give anything – _anything_ – to promise him that. Anything at all.

To tell him she’s his until the end of their days. Until long past the time when they retire, and the autumn years have passed them by, filled with shared happiness and memories, with nothing pressing to do and all day to do it in.

But she can’t.

And it hurts more than she ever could have imagined.

* * *

Grace twists against him, twines closer. Boyd feels her hands glide up over his chest, her body rise above his. She’s leaning over him, looking down, and in the muted glow of the lamp that was already lit when she tugged him from his night-time horrors she looks stunning.

Unwavering gaze, wide blue irises, tousled hair; a palm flush against his cheek. The brush of her thumb over his lips, the lightest, softest trace, is a sweet torment as she gazes steadily down at him, near into him.

“I love you, Peter,” she whispers to him, “with all my heart.”

And then her lips have found his, and it’s the most tender, indulgent affirmation of her words he could ever have hoped for.

* * *

The pain is becoming more persistent now. Harder to keep at bay.

Her GP has his suspicions, and she has her own. She knows her family history all too well. Knows there was a reason she was an orphan at fifteen.

Genetics are a bitch sometimes, and _it_ is on both sides of her family tree, too.

It’s staggering she has dodged the bullet for as many years as she has.

The blood test will be back in three days, and then there will be decisions to make, pathways to choose. She’s sure of it.

It’s terrifying and devastating.

The uncertainty is overwhelming.

All she wants is to promise him.

But she can’t.

* * *

She kisses him again, and the tiny sliver of his mind that is still pushing away the darkness of his dreams seizes on the moment, gently eases her onto her back as he returns those kisses, lets his hands and mind begin to roam.

He didn’t intend it, but it takes almost nothing to spark a slow yet intense fire between them, to move from gentle touching to erotic caresses, light kisses to deep explorations and tongues that reach out, wanting more.

She moans beneath him, whispering his name, telling him things that make him ache and burn as he presses against her, desperately, readily hard. They move together in perfect unison, a seamless tangle of limbs and bodies, so attuned to one another, so entranced and absorbed in the moment, in their goal.

Time and reason and everything else in between disappears for Boyd; it all bleeds away as he holds her and she pulls him closer as that promised moment of exquisite pleasure moves closer and closer.

* * *

In the dreamy, peaceful aftermath she drifts, secure in his embrace even as his grip inevitably slackens as he returns to slumber, his breathing deep and even as the exertion fades and dopamine and serotonin sink their claws into his consciousness.

He will have no more nightmares tonight, she knows, but she will. 

Guilty tears burn in her eyes and drip down her cheeks, pooling on his chest.

The terror and the fear is hers now, and she is struggling to control it.

He asked her to promise him, but she didn’t. Couldn’t.

Instead she led him into sex, told him she adored him. And she does. More than anything.

She can’t make that promise though, and as he sleeps her tears flow, hot and heavy and guilty and scared, because what the future holds now, Grace really doesn’t know.


End file.
